


Snowball Fight

by cheerfulparadigm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dummies, Fluff, I Tried, M/M, first ao3 post, in which the title is really uncreative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:38:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1941450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerfulparadigm/pseuds/cheerfulparadigm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What? You've never had a snowball fight?" </p>
<p>"No. Why would I want to do something so childish and idiotic?"</p>
<p>**<br/>(Imagine your OTP having a snowball fight.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowball Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there. Glad you decided to click on this. Hope you stay and read it too. I wrote this little thing a while ago, but I thought I'd put it here on this shiny new ao3 account. Based off of this prompt: "Imagine your OTP having a snowball fight." The ending's a little fast and a bit awkward, but yeah. I tried. Unbeta'd and not britpicked and also written on an iPhone so all mistakes are mine. I hope you like this dumb little thing. (And I would love love love it if you commented and left concrit. uwu)

Sherlock let out a breath as he slapped a third nicotine patch on his arm. A small groan escaped his lips as he felt the chemicals entering his system, his hand clenching and unclenching. He felt John's presence before he heard the footsteps coming into the living room.

"Morning, Sherlock," he said with a yawn as he made his way into the kitchen.

Sherlock offered no response, and John hardly expected one. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to John move about the kitchen. He heard the water hitting the kettle as he filled it and the scrape of two mugs being pulled out of the cabinet (John rarely asked if Sherlock wanted tea anymore; he usually just made him a cuppa without question.). Finally he heard the small click of the kettle being turned on and John's footsteps as he came back to the living room. Seven more steps put John in front of the window. Sherlock heard a soft rustle of fabric as John pulled back the curtains to look outside.

"Oh look, Sherlock, it's snowing."

The detective didn't even open his eyes as he responded dryly, "Yes, John, it's winter. It's London. It happens. Hardly a surprise."

John didn't seem affected as he went on talking. "I remember when me and Harry used to have snowball fights."

Sherlock snorted. John turned back around to face him then. "What? You've never had a snowball fight?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. "No. Why would I want to do something so childish and idiotic?"

John looked somewhat incredulous. "Not even as a kid? You and Mycroft never--?" John cut himself off as Sherlock gave him a look. "Right. Yeah. I'm not surprised."

"You shouldn't be." John paused. "So you've really never had a snowball fight at all?"

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Mmm. One winter when I was seven, a group of older boys chased me down the street and threw snow at me. But I hardly think that counts." He looked at his nicotine patches and then back at his friend. "Why does it matter to you, John?"

The doctor shrugged. "I dunno. It just seems every kid does at some point. I just assumed..."

"Haven't you learned to never assume with me?"

John only snorted in response as he went to turn off the whistling kettle. Exactly 5.3 minutes passed before John was handing Sherlock a steaming cup of earl grey. He hummed in lieu of a thank you and sat up as John went to sit in his chair.

They spent most of the morning like that, being boringly domestic. John watched some crap telly and typed—well, _pecked_ —away at his blog. Sherlock checked on his eyes in the microwave, scribbled down some results, and proceeded to lay on the couch, sighing about how bored he was, eventually resorting to throwing the Union Jack pillow towards the ceiling again and again.

Finally, after hours of nothing, Sherlock's phone vibrated from it's place on the table. Sherlock snatched it up, looked at it for five seconds, and let out a breath. " _Finally_!" Sherlocked jumped up from his perch on the couch, turning to John's questioning gaze. "Lestrade texted. New case. Murder. Finally, I've been needing something to do. I could feel my brain rotting. Scene's just a few blocks from here. Come along, John. This could be interesting." With that, he shrugged on his Belstaff, tugged on his scarf, and all but bolted to the door, John just a few steps behind.

 

The case was solved rather quickly. Took Sherlock less than an hour to figure it out (the ex-wife did it; poison). "How dull," he had sneered. The detective was disappointed as he and John walked back through the snow.

He sighed, his breath making a wispy cloud in the cold air. "I can't believe I wasted my time on that," he grumbled. "It was barely a four. Why'd they even bother to call me? Even they could've figured our that one with a _little_ thought."

"Well, at least it got you out of the house for a bit," John commented, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Almost not worth it."

The two walked in silence for a little while, listening to the sounds of London and the crunch of snow beneath their feet. Eventually, the differences in their strides caused Sherlock to get ahead of his smaller friend. Sherlock didn't bother to drop back and John didn't bother to catch up.

Sherlock became lost in his thoughts as he walked, trying to think up a way to stop his brain from turning into complete mush if a case didn't turn up soon. He could go down to Bart's and see what new cadavers Molly had for him. He never finished with those fingers in the--

His train of thought crashed as something collided with the back of his head. He touched his curls, finding clumps of snow there. He turned to find John smirking at him mischievously, hands behind his back.

His brow furrowed. "John? What are you doing?"

John lifted one hand from behind him, revealing a misshapen ball of white. "Snowball fight." His smile grew as he lifted his arm as if to aim.

"John, no." Too late. The next snowball hit him in the shoulder. Sherlock scowled.

John couldn't help it. He giggled at Sherlock's expression. It was supposed to come off menacing and angry, but to John it just look adorable and pouty. Lost in his laughter, John didn't notice Sherlock setting his jaw or bending over to gather snow in his hands. Not until it was too late and a snowball hit him square in the chest. His laughter cut off and he shot Sherlock a slightly shocked look. The younger man only smirked. John smiled in return and both men bent to grab more snow, flinging it at each other and giggling like schoolboys.

After a few minutes, the two dissolved into laughter, leaning on each other as they shared breathless giggles. As their laughs subsided, the two looked into each other's faces, smiling. Neither could say who leaned in first, but then there a press of lips on lips. The kiss was sweet and chase and short. Both men pulled away after only just a moment. Their satisfied grins only widened. John reached up and brushed a few snowflakes out of Sherlock's errant curls. Sherlock let out a small, breathy chuckle and the two walked back to Baker Street in a comfortable silence, John casually slipping his hand into Sherlock's.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. There you go. I hope you enjoyed it and have a good day. uwu 
> 
> (I have a tumblr if you feel like checking that out. ofbelstaffsandbowties)


End file.
